


why don't you blow me a kiss before she goes

by girodelles_waifu



Category: Romeo & Juliet - Takarazuka Revue, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Takarazuka Revue Musicals
Genre: Blackmail, Dubious Consent, Lent, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Very Stupid Mercutio Behavior, accidental blackmail, additional appearances by tybalt's collar, fixing retj by making things exponentially worse first, how old are they? idk aizuki hikaru is like 32 so, tybalt and lord c aren't blood related but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girodelles_waifu/pseuds/girodelles_waifu
Summary: Mercutio accidentally discovers a dark secret of the Capulet family, and in his attempts to use it to get the upper hand over Tybalt things rapidly get out of control. Benvolio is naturally left to clean up the mess, if only he could figure out what the mess is in the first place.
Relationships: Lord Capulet/Tybalt, Mercutio/Tybalt (Romeo and Juliet)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the MCR song 'The Sharpest Lives'.
> 
> Based on the performers from the 2021 (originally intended for 2020) Takarazuka production's A cast. (Mercutio and Tybalt can be seen here: https://kageki.hankyu.co.jp/revue/2021/romeoandjuliette/cpl73a000009g0oy-img/cpl73a000009g0t9.jpg)
> 
> Also please note I am not Catholic although I put effort into research.

Mercutio has never cared much for church. There seems to be little point to it: interminable sermons and lectures in the name of a God who is never there to help when you need Him. At least, during Lent, the statues of the Saints are veiled and cannot stare at him accusingly for his boredom.

Looking for something more interesting to focus on than the liturgy, he stares idly around the church until his gaze lands on Tybalt, standing with his family on the opposite side of the central aisle.

The Capulets aren’t all that, Mercutio thinks. It’s ridiculous the way they show off their pretended wealth. Despite the supposedly somber worship season, the girl’s hair (Ginevra? Juliet? Mercutio can’t remember) is draped with pearls and expensive lace hangs off her pink dress, but it’s Tybalt who is the most infuriating. He’s not even a Capulet, not exactly, but he still flaunts their colors, wearing tight blood-crimson leather embossed with gold as if he has a right to it.

Benvolio, standing next to Mercutio, elbows him a little as he catches him staring across the cathedral, and Mercutio kicks him in the ankle. Sighing, Benvolio looks back to his missal.

Mercutio much prefers sitting with the Montagues in church; his uncle would always scold him afterwards for fidgeting and looking anywhere but at the pulpit with anything but a dutifully worshipful expression. These were all things Mercutio was terrible at achieving, so he quickly abandoned his place with the ruling house for the Montague side of the pews, and the Prince gave up on trying to drag him back after the first month.

Standing with the Montagues also gives him the perfect vantage point to watch the Capulets.

Just to make sure they don’t try anything.

As he sneers at the elaborate pattern of gold braid on Tybalt’s sleeves, Mercutio notices Lord Capulet’s hand resting casually on Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt bites his lip and takes a small step aside, but otherwise does nothing to resist as the hand traces lower, dragging across the back of his jacket and then creeping underneath before moving further down.

Tybalt looks around the room as his uncle’s hand comes to rest, fingers digging into his inner thigh and his thumb brushing slowly back and forth. Mercutio stares intently down at his missal before they can make eye contact.

He couldn’t _actually_ have just seen what he thought he did. Could he?

The images repeat in his mind through the final hour of the service.

As the congregation leaves, Romeo drags Mercutio and Benvolio with him to sit on the churchyard wall, hoping to get a glimpse of the Capulet girl Rosaline he imagines himself in love with. They see little more than her dark hair under a circlet of gilded roses, as she and Tybalt’s cousin are pressed against each other giggling.

Tybalt shoots Mercutio a glare as he passes. He’s positioned towards the back of the Capulet group—well out of his uncle’s reach, Mercutio realizes. Mercutio glares back and sticks his tongue out, laughing when Tybalt snarls at him.

“Tybalt!”

Tybalt freezes almost imperceptibly at Lord Capulet’s shout, then hurries after the other Capulets, giving Mercutio a last glare over his shoulder.

“Mercutio…” Benvolio sighs.

Mercutio kicks at his shoulder playfully from his perch on the wall. “What?”

“I just think…” Benvolio shakes his head. “Forget it. Let’s go get a drink.”

“Amen!” Mercutio exclaims, crossing himself theatrically before jumping off the wall. 

Benvolio punches him lightly on the arm, then throws his arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Romeo!”

Mercutio can’t help one more look at the departing Capulets as they walk towards their favorite bar.

Over the next few days, Mercutio can’t shake off what he saw at the church. Surely he must have imagined it, but he can’t forget the tight look on Tybalt’s face. Though pestering Tybalt is Mercutio’s main hobby, he’s never thought much about the fact that Tybalt actually exists outside of their street brawls.

Eventually, he’s so overcome by curiosity that he finds himself climbing a tree outside the Capulet manor grounds until he can perch in a forked branch that gives a view of the courtyard. He sits there for ages, enough for one leg to fall asleep and for him to entirely forget why he’s there in the first place (not that he can define what the reason ever really was).

The maids’ chatter as they sweep the garden paths is of no interest, nor is the sound drifting through the windows of Lady Capulet shouting angrily at her daughter’s nurse.

“Uncle, this isn’t—” 

Mercutio looks around at the familiar voice and catches a glimpse of gleaming brown curls and the edge of a gold-trimmed sleeve behind a flower-draped archway. He leans on a thin branch closer to the wall, trying to get a better view.

“Not _outside_ , I—ah!”

Tybalt’s whisper breaks off with a soft gasp as he’s pulled further out of sight, at the same time as the branch under Mercutio’s hand snaps, sending him tumbling through the leaves below to land on the street with a bruising thud.

Dazed, he slowly stands up to brush twigs and leaves out of his now-ruined hair arrangement, then, hearing footsteps, bolts around the corner of the wall before anyone can come to investigate.

“Where have you been?” Benvolio asks when Mercutio finally arrives breathlessly at the young Montagues’ favorite drinking spot, in the ruins of an old Roman mausoleum, where even during Lent nobody would bother trying to climb the hill up to the ancient ruins to enforce the fast. “Jesus, your hair…”

“Ow!” Mercutio yelps as Benvolio pulls out a stubborn strand of vine. “I’ve been...you know. Around.” He laughs awkwardly as he grabs a bottle from next to a crumbling column. “You’re lucky I finally found my way here so we can get the party started!”

Benvolio laughs and elbows him in the side, and Mercutio tells himself he’ll think no more about Tybalt.

But of course he does.

Over the next few days, the street brawls are too public for Mercutio to find the right opportunity to taunt Tybalt with this new ammunition. The best he gets is a punch in the mouth when he tries to grab Tybalt’s arm through the red leather jacket.

Then, after a small skirmish early one evening, Mercutio finds himself cornered against a wall in the back of an alley as Tybalt approaches him. Mercutio isn’t afraid, of course: though Tybalt has his hand on his knife, he knows better than to think he could get away with murdering the Prince of Verona’s nephew in cold blood. Both of them know it. It’s what makes goading Tybalt into outbursts so fun.

Mercutio isn’t afraid. He shivers a little as Tybalt leans one arm on the brick wall, cornering him, but it’s only because it’s cold.

Tybalt isn’t actually taller than Mercutio—well, perhaps by the span of a finger or two—but he feels much larger, with his lean, graceful muscle compared to the awkward growth spurt Mercutio is still getting used to. The red leather collar with its gold buckle, gleaming a little in the sunset, shifts as Tybalt tilts his head with a cold smile.

It takes Mercutio several blank moments to suddenly remember how he can regain control of the situation.

“I saw you,” he says abruptly.

Tybalt blinks in confusion, then starts to open his mouth for some mocking retort.

“At the church,” Mercutio finishes, and Tybalt freezes. Mercutio takes the opportunity to push past him; Tybalt turns as Mercutio steps around him, and now he’s the one with his back against the wall.

Tybalt still doesn’t say anything, but his hand falls away from the knife.

Mercutio knows, as soon as he says it, that this isn’t something Benvolio would approve of, but he can’t very well stop now.

“I saw a lot,” he goes on. “At the manor, too. Maybe you wouldn’t want other people to know what I saw.”

Tybalt takes a deep breath, running one hand through his curls as he looks away from Mercutio’s eyes.

Mercutio didn’t expect him to look so nervous. This is definitely a ploy to trick him into exposing his weak points.

Tybalt slowly lets another breath out. “What do you want, then,” he says; perhaps he is trying to sound casual but the words come out unevenly.

Well, if Tybalt is going to dare him, Mercutio isn’t about to give in.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

Mercutio puts his hands on his hips, staring at Tybalt challengingly. “You heard what I said.”

Tybalt slowly takes a step towards him and Mercutio smirks in delight: this was just what he needed to make things interesting and forget the frustrations of Lent. Any second now, Tybalt is going to lash out, and Mercutio will dodge out of the way with more taunts to bait him into a chase.

When Tybalt grabs him by the front of his jacket, Mercutio can barely hold back a laugh. Any moment now, he thinks, starting to reach for the knife tucked in the back of his trousers.

Tybalt’s eyes narrow, then soften for a split second before he leans in to kiss Mercutio.

Mercutio’s mouth falls open in shock, and Tybalt seems to take it as an invitation. As Tybalt presses into his mouth, Mercutio recovers from his frozen surprise enough to realize he can’t just stand there like an idiot or Tybalt will think he didn’t expect this. Grabbing the crisp ruffles of Tybalt’s shirt, he tugs him close, then, feeling daring, pulls the red shirt further open—a button bursts as he digs his fingers into the tight black undershirt to feel the muscles underneath.

Tybalt makes a small sound into his mouth, his weight shifting back a little, but he doesn’t pull away. Mercutio, as he comes to realize gradually, is being left in charge.

Of course, he can’t back off right away, or Tybalt will decide he’s a coward. After what he guesses is a bit over a minute, Mercutio concludes that it’s finally safe to break off the kiss without it seeming that he’s conceded defeat.

Tybalt stares at him as he pulls away. His eyes are wider than Mercutio has ever seen, and they’re both a little breathless.

“Was that enough for you.”

Tybalt speaks softly, with a strange undertone in his voice. Mercutio can’t remember ever having an interaction with Tybalt where he wasn’t being shouted at. Maybe he’s still heady from the kiss—maybe it’s because he had already been drinking that morning—but he thinks he would like to hear more.

Still, he can’t keep this up. That would be ridiculous.

But what is the other option? To finally gain the upper hand over Tybalt, and then give it back? The Capulets would never respect him again.

No, Mercutio decides, he can’t let Tybalt think this is over. And if Tybalt refuses and lashes out, well, then they’re back to their usual fun.

“Come to the palace,” Mercutio blurts out. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow night.”

Besides, what else is there to do during Lent?


	2. Chapter 2

Tybalt’s never actually going to turn up, Mercutio knows. He’s going to back down, and Mercutio will taunt him about it the next day, and things will go back to their usual pattern.

Mercutio is completely assured of this until a very confused servant knocks on the door of his suite and informs him he has a guest. Mercutio knows he must look equally confused when Tybalt enters, but it’s not as if Tybalt is going to notice—he determinedly looks anywhere else in the room than at Mercutio.

“I’m here,” Tybalt says finally, after Mercutio has stared at him helplessly for about a minute, leaning on the locked door of the suite. Tybalt still won’t look at him.

“Y-yeah…”

Tybalt isn’t wearing his usual heavy leather jacket, rather a hooded red cloak that he slowly unties and slides off his shoulders as Mercutio watches, then drapes over one of the chairs by the table. Mercutio has never seen him so uncovered before, even though he’s still wearing the ruffled shirt—a different one, he notes after a moment, with slightly shinier, clingier fabric—and dark undershirt.

What does Tybalt expect of him? Why would Tybalt come here, if he expects such things?

Mercutio never thought things would go this far. He can’t gather his thoughts at all, looking at Tybalt like this.

“Do you want a drink?” he manages at last.

Tybalt makes a small sound under his breath that might have been ‘Thank God’. “Please.”

Mercutio moves away from the door and is slightly surprised when Tybalt doesn’t immediately leave. Of course Mercutio locked it, but there’s only a small bolt holding the door shut to keep nosy cousins from discovering what he’s up to. Tybalt could easily get out if he wanted.

Couldn’t he?

Picking up one of the wine bottles he pilfered from his uncle’s wine cellar, Mercutio pours a generous glass for himself and another for Tybalt. (And then another for Tybalt, after he drains the first almost immediately.)

He has to do _something_ with Tybalt. If he doesn’t, he might as well announce to the Capulets that the city is theirs.

Mercutio empties his glass and sets it back on the table, then grabs Tybalt’s wrist and pulls him towards the large couch. Tybalt must have been planning something when he came here—surely he isn’t just going to let him...but Tybalt falls against the back of the couch without resistance when Mercutio pushes him down.

Tybalt finally looks at Mercutio for the first time, staring up at him as Mercutio stands there with his hands on his shoulders. His dark lashes flicker and he bites his lip.

Tybalt is beautiful, Mercutio realizes suddenly. He’s never been able to look at him so close up before, not still like this, and not without having to dodge a punch a few seconds later. 

Mercutio swallows hard, then slowly puts one knee on the couch between Tybalt’s legs and leans in.

Kissing Tybalt is even better than it felt yesterday, now that he has time to understand what’s happening. Mercutio cups Tybalt’s face in his hands as he deepens the kiss, then buries his hands in Tybalt’s glossy curls, feeling them ripple between his fingers.

Tybalt gasps as Mercutio grabs a handful of the curls and tugs. Putting an arm around Mercutio’s waist, Tybalt pulls him closer, kissing Mercutio’s neck when he breaks off the kiss to breathe.

Mercutio has always liked their fights, but this is a much, _much_ better development of their game of wills, he concludes. And if Tybalt is going to take it this far, Mercutio certainly isn’t going to leave his challenge unsatisfied.

Tybalt is just starting to unbutton Mercutio’s shirt when there’s a knock on the door, then a rattle as someone tries it and finds it locked. 

“Mercutio?”

“Oh, what the hell is he doing here now,” Mercutio mutters. Instinctively, he puts a hand over Tybalt’s mouth, and only a few moments later thinks to be surprised that Tybalt didn’t bite him for it. “Paris?” he calls back, hoping the way his voice shakes isn’t suspicious. “What’s up?”

“Uncle asked me to help with arrangements for the Good Friday banquet and I’m trying to work out the deliveries, but I can’t make heads or tails of this map he drew,” Paris says through the door. “Are you busy?”

“No!” Mercutio replies immediately. “Absolutely—absolutely not busy at all. Never less busy. Ever. _Not_ busy. Give me...two minutes!”

Tybalt makes a small snort under Mercutio’s hand.

“Ssh!” Mercutio whispers quickly as he pulls his hand away. Buttoning his shirt, he combs his hands through his hair, then grabs the wineglasses off the table and shoves them into a small chest, leaning on it until it shuts. “If you leave through the window nobody will see,” he hisses to Tybalt as he throws the red cloak at him—Tybalt half ducks, a natural reaction to Mercutio throwing something, and the cloak falls across his hair and the back of the couch. Mercutio stifles a laugh at his wide eyes, and then another at his affronted wince. “There’s vines over the wall by the northwest corner,” he says when he’s sure he won’t laugh loud enough for Paris to hear. 

He’ll consider later whether it was a bad idea to let one of his enemies know how he gets in and out of the Prince’s manor without being seen. This is an emergency.

Tybalt gets up slowly, as Paris tries the door again. “Mercutioooo, if I don’t have this done by tomorrow morning he’s going to go on and on about it!”

“Go go go!” Mercutio insists in a whisper, pushing Tybalt towards the window opening on the balcony.

Tybalt reaches for the window latch, then turns to face him. “So you’ve had enough, then?”

Mercutio stares at him blankly. “I, uh…”

Benvolio would never approve of this.

But what else is he supposed to do, let Tybalt think he’s won? Let him tease Mercutio with everything he just saw, just felt, and take it away again?

Besides, it would be a waste to give up on this new side to their game after it’s only just started.

“...Of course not,” Mercutio says. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Ah.”

“Get going!”

Mercutio practically shoves Tybalt through the window, then latches it behind him and pulls the curtains closed.

“Mercutio?”

“Coming!”

Paris won’t notice a thing, he tells himself.

* * *

Benvolio first starts to feel something is off around ten days into Lent. Yes, everyone is fighting, the same as usual, but it doesn’t seem quite the same. Perhaps it’s the frustrations of Lent coming out in the street brawls. Tybalt is certainly more vicious than usual.

Though, if it was just Lent, Benvolio would have expected Tybalt to be assaulting Mercutio directly, rather than whoever happened to be closest to him or trying to protect him. Benvolio isn’t used to being so targeted, and gets a painful kick in the stomach before he starts dodging.

Mercutio doesn’t seem to notice the change, but then he’s seemed so distractible the last few days—this being why Benvolio keeps having to push him out of Tybalt’s way. He’s drinking more than usual as well, though with Mercutio’s contrary nature Benvolio doesn’t want to bring up that problem for fear of making it worse.

This happens every year, the sermons of repentance and giving up vice only causing Mercutio to rebel more enthusiastically. At first, Benvolio feels confident that once Lent is over things will go back to normal.

Then, two weeks into Lent, Mercutio is late in meeting Benvolio, Romeo, and a couple of the other young Montagues for a fishing trip to the river outside the city.

“I’ll go to the palace and get him,” Benvolio says after they’ve been waiting by the fountain in the plaza for a quarter hour.

“Sure,” Romeo yawns. He’s never been much for mornings, but he’s happiest when he can escape the city so he insisted on coming with them even though it’s barely dawn.

The guards at the Prince’s manor let Benvolio through the gate without even a word. Benvolio doesn’t bother with the main door of the manor itself, and slips in through the side servant’s entrance in order to find Mercutio without making a fuss. If they wake up the Prince this early Mercutio will have hell to pay later.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Benvolio throws the door to Mercutio’s room open. “Rise and shine!” he declares in the loudest whisper he dares.

The suite is, as usual, a mess, though the usual piles of clothes and books sitting on the couch have been transferred to the table.

Benvolio knocks briskly on the bedroom door, then opens it. He was expecting the bed to be a mess, which of course it is, but he was also rather expecting Mercutio to be in it. “Mercutio?” he calls quietly. “If you’re pranking me again…”

Mercutio is nowhere to be found in the room, even when Benvolio opens the wardrobe to look inside.

By this point, Benvolio is starting to wonder if he somehow passed Mercutio leaving on his way in without noticing, but he decides to check Mercutio’s other favorite place in the palace before giving up.

Behind the kitchen door he can hear a soft conversation—the exact words are inaudible but Benvolio recognizes Mercutio’s voice immediately.

Benvolio flings the door open. “So you thought you could escape, could yo—oh what the fuck,” he breaks off, as he finds himself face to face with Tybalt. Benvolio dodges to put the table between them, but Tybalt looks just as confused as Benvolio is sure he must, and rather than threatening a punch takes a step or two back as well. “Mercutio? What’s going on?”

Mercutio fills a wineglass—from the pained expression on his face he’s trying to recover from a hangover. “I can explain.”

“And?”

“I should go…” Tybalt says, backing towards the door.

“Ah, so here’s where all the noise was.” 

Mercutio puts his face in his hands with a moan as Paris opens the door. 

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Paris looks around as he pours himself a glass of wine, then smiles at Tybalt. “Haven’t seen you in daylight before. Were you coming or going?”

Tybalt’s face goes blank and his fingers tighten on his glass.

“He. Was. Just. Leaving.”

“Yes,” Tybalt says, in a strange soft tone.

“What…” Benvolio stares in confusion.

Paris looks from Tybalt to Benvolio and lets out a soft whistle as he opens the door again. “Wish I had your luck.”

“Oh my _god_ please go away,” Mercutio groans.

“What, I’m being supportive!” Paris waves the wine glass in a vague salute before leaving.

“I should be, uh...going...errands...expected…” Tybalt quickly empties the last of the wine in his glass, then grabs his cloak off the table. The kitchen door slams behind him a moment after he pushes past Benvolio.

“What the hell was _that_.”

“What are you doing here so early?” Mercutio demands simultaneously.

“What are you still doing here? So late? We’re supposed to be fishing, remember? And what was Tybalt here for?”

“I didn’t want him here! He was just...here. My uncle corresponds with the Capulets sometimes, you know? That’s. That’s a very good reason. For him to be here. Which he was. What am I supposed to do, push him down the stairs?”

Benvolio decides this isn’t anything worth arguing about, and honestly, if Mercutio can be persuaded to behave himself around Tybalt once in a while that’s nothing to discourage. “Look, let’s just get your things and get going, alright. Romeo and the others are waiting.”

“Right...fishing. Just what I wanted to do today.” Mercutio sighs as he stands up. “God, my head hurts.”

“Maybe you shouldn't drink so much over Lent,” Benvolio suggests, trying to sound casual.

“Whatever. I left that stuff in my room, I’ll go get it.”

“I’ll help.”

“You don’t need to,” Mercutio says, but Benvolio follows him up the stairs anyway.

Mercutio rummages through the suite to find his fishing bag, while Benvolio decides he might as well make the bed and save Mercutio some small part of his uncle’s lecture were he to see the state the suite is in.

As he smooths the covers, Benvolio kicks something hard under the bed. He bends down to pick it up, expecting one of Mercutio’s myriad small chests and cases that he collects and fills with random things.

Benvolio finds himself looking at a gold-hilted knife in a sheath of red leather.

Tybalt’s knife.


	3. Chapter 3

“So do you want to talk about that?” Benvolio tries, as they sit on a rock overlooking the river. He and Mercutio are the only ones earnestly fishing, as Romeo and the other boys who came with them decided the time could be better spent throwing pinecones at each other.

“Talk about what?”

This is going to be one of _those_ topics, Benvolio can tell. Ignoring a situation never actually makes it go away, but Mercutio discovered long ago that if he’s annoying enough about his refusal to acknowledge something that everyone else gives up, it comes to about the same thing.

Benvolio decides it’s best not to push him. Whatever is happening between Mercutio and Tybalt, it’s certainly the cause of the strange turbulence on the streets. Calling more attention to it can only make things worse; hopefully, if they get a chance to work through things without anyone interfering, they’ll be able to sort out their issues and everyone else in Verona will be the happier for it.

Better that, than one of them getting his throat slit in the town square.

Besides, knowing Mercutio and Tybalt, there’s no way it will last past Easter. Still, Benvolio concludes, there’s nothing wrong with keeping an eye on things—Mercutio could easily get hurt if Tybalt takes things too far.

* * *

Mercutio knows, by now, that what he’s doing is cruel. Though at first he might have been able to tell himself differently, it’s clear, almost three weeks into Lent, that Tybalt sees no way out. Mercutio never actually meant his threats, but it’s far too late to try to convince Tybalt of this—and he’s doing a poor job of convincing himself, anyway.

He should be enjoying this. He has his most hated enemy on his knees, humiliated and at his mercy. Why can’t he just revel in having the advantage he’s always wanted? Besides, Tybalt is a Capulet: he deserves anything Mercutio does to him. Tybalt would certainly do the same thing, if their positions were reversed.

It shouldn’t make him feel so sick, to see how Tybalt grows more and more withdrawn every time he comes to the palace, to see him flinch when he shouts.

But what else can he do?

“I’m tired of fucking you, so let’s just forget all that and go back to how things were.” Even if Tybalt actually believed that Mercutio would willingly give up his power over him (even Mercutio doesn’t believe this, not really), Mercutio can’t very well forget what he saw.

His uncle always did say if he didn’t pay more attention in church he’d go to Hell one day. Perhaps he’s right.

But if he’s drunk enough when Tybalt comes to his window, he can forget everything else and only think of how beautiful Tybalt is with that anxious look on his face, the way his hair feels when he pulls it, the soft throaty gasps he makes when Mercutio’s hands are around his neck.

Mercutio shoves Tybalt out of bed and rolls over to watch him dress in the dim light, leaning his chin in his hands. After grabbing his leather trousers off the floor and putting them on, Tybalt slips the black undershirt back on. His eyes meet Mercutio’s for a moment and he quickly turns away before tightening the laces running down the back of the shirt.

There’s no need to discuss anything—they both know the pattern will repeat the next night.

Tybalt doesn’t even bother buttoning his red shirt before putting his jacket on and sliding his hair out from underneath the layers. Just as he reaches for the bedroom door, Mercutio catches a glimpse of red on the nightstand.

“You forgot this.”

Tybalt turns with his hand on the latch, his eyes going wide as he sees Mercutio dangling the red collar off one finger. Taking a step forward, he starts to reach for it, but Mercutio pulls it away before he can grab it.

“Oh, no,” Mercutio smirks, throwing the covers off and shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”

Tybalt takes a sharp breath, drawing back instantly.

“Unless you’d rather have this sitting out where anybody could find it? I’m sure they would _love_ to hear why I have it.” 

Mercutio waves the collar, biting back a laugh as Tybalt hesitates—there’s plenty to enjoy about this situation after all. Despite the poor light he can practically see Tybalt’s cheeks burning.

Mercutio moves his knees further apart and holds the collar up. “Well?”

Tybalt bites his lip, looking back towards the bedroom door, then steps forward. Mercutio feels as if he could scream with victorious delight as Tybalt slowly kneels between his legs.

Mercutio grabs the back of Tybalt’s hair roughly as he tries to reach for the collar again. “Not so fast. Do you think you’re getting away so easy?”

Tybalt turns away for a moment, blinking.

He can’t actually have made Tybalt Capulet cry, of all people, Mercutio tells himself. The light is too poor to tell. And if it isn’t a trick of the light he had it coming, anyway.

Tybalt’s hand shakes a little as he reaches back to sweep his hair out of the way, bending his head forward as Mercutio unbuckles the collar. Seeking for balance, his other hand rests lightly on Mercutio’s thigh, and Mercutio shivers as he feels Tybalt’s warmth through the thin silk drawers he wore to bed, each finger searing into his skin.

Mercutio tries to remember how tight Tybalt usually fastens the collar. He’s having a very hard time thinking, all of a sudden.

Mercutio slides the collar around Tybalt’s neck, enjoying the way his breath catches nervously and his pulse flutters as Mercutio slowly pulls the end through the buckle. Putting a hand under Tybalt’s chin, he tilts his face up so he can see better.

“And who is the dog of the Montagues now, hm?” Mercutio whispers, bending close.

Tybalt’s eyes go wide and he starts to pull away as Mercutio kisses him, but Mercutio yanks on the end of the collar to keep him where he is. Tybalt gasps and chokes—that was definitely too tight. 

Still, it isn’t like he’ll die before Mercutio is satisfied with the kiss, so Mercutio ignores his shuddering attempts to breathe for another several seconds, grabbing his hair with his other hand as Tybalt tries to jerk away. Tybalt’s grip on his thigh tightens enough that Mercutio’s sure there will be bruises by the next morning.

Finally, Mercutio reluctantly releases Tybalt from the kiss, sliding the collar through to loosen it enough that he can breathe before fastening the buckle.

Tybalt shoves up on Mercutio’s thighs and staggers back, his chest heaving as he coughs. Swaying a little, he puts one hand on the wall for balance, his other hand going to his neck.

Mercutio watches him for a few moments. He’s trembling as well, though he can’t tell why.

“Now get out,” Mercutio snaps, as Tybalt’s breathing evens.

Tybalt stares at him blankly for a few moments, looking vaguely ill, then bolts for the door of the bedroom.

Mercutio waits until he hears the window slam shut, then falls back on the bed and laughs for what feels like hours.

How could he ever think of giving this up?


End file.
